


No second chance for a first impression... but how about a second impression?

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 08:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2262942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the "SanSan-Russian-Roulette" on LJ.</p><p>The prompt was "8-minute dating, Westerosi-style".</p>
            </blockquote>





	No second chance for a first impression... but how about a second impression?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starbird1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbird1/gifts).



> Some foul language and creepy behaviour.  
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

Sansa was getting desperate. Why had she given in to Margaery's idea of participating in a speed-dating event? This one at least was an absolute catastrophe.

 

All the men present were way too old for her! First, some Doctor Pycelle (“Well-off, good position – may I examine your boobs?”). Second, a stony, arrogant Mr. Lannister (“I'm a wealthy, influential widower – but actually, I'm looking for a match for my freak of a son.”). Third, a certain Petyr Baelish (“I think I may have had a thing with your mother. What a coincidence! And you're just as beautiful.”) His attempt at fondling her under the table had given her the creeps.

 

And now, she was sitting in front of another man who was less than promising. Margaery had already faced him and had quickly informed her before this round: “Member of the Royal Special Forces. Incapable of basic civility.”

 

Well, he certainly looked the part with his scarred, sour face and his huge, heavily-muscled frame. Sansa studied his name badge.

 

“Good afternoon, Mr. … Clegane.”

 

“Call me by my first name. Or “Hound”.”

 

Sansa recoiled and started to wait for the signal that would end this round.

 

“All right... Sandor. How are you doing?”

 

“Fuck. Saccharine waffling again. Prattling like an overstrung parrot, you are. I'll call you “Little Bird”.”

 

Uh-oh. This man was even worse than the others. Should she fake an urgent mobile call to pass the time?

 

“Be patient,” Sansa scolded herself.

 

Aloud, she said: “If it pleases you... So... what's your job, Sandor?”

 

“Killing on command to save the bigwig's arses.”

 

Sansa gaped in silence.

 

“Never seen a killing, have you, Little Bird? And what are you? A posh seamstress, given your looks.”

 

It took her some effort to answer: “The profession is called “designer”.”

 

“Bloody buzzwords. Anyway. Put silk on a hound, you won't make him a lapdog.”

 

Sansa agreed silently and sighed when their joint time was finally over.

 

After the event had ended, the people streamed out of the hall where it had taken place. There would be a reception with Tyroshi canapés and some drinks. Everything was arranged on fine Myrish tablecloths, Sansa noticed. She'd only drink a prosecco with Margaery to regain her vitality and would return home as soon as possible. Ugh. That scarred ruffian was asking for Dornish red, of course.

 

She and her friend retreated to a balcony, because Margaery needed a cigarette.

 

Krrrks.

 

The railing Sansa had been leaning on gave way, and she fell, screaming. With a thud she landed on a flimsy canopy one floor deeper. If the construction collapsed she'd fall another three storeys, which would mean severe injuries or even death. Sansa sobbed and whimpered, her hair billowing in the wind. Further up, there was shocked pandemonium among the other guests.

 

“Seven hells, what a blind, brainless bird! Anyone could see the railing was rusty.”

 

A rope came dangling down in front of Sansa's face, and there were some scratching noises above her. Next, strong arms wound around her waist. Sandor Clegane – he was coming to her aid! Holding her tight, the warrior made his way back to the speed-dating party and was greeted with wild applause.

 

Back in safety, Sansa was shaking, weeping... and clinging to her saviour. Who needed civility after all, if a partner was willing to risk his life for you?


End file.
